


Seasons of Love

by sandwichtree



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwichtree/pseuds/sandwichtree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Eren go on a date. Things go to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons of Love

Jean stands next to the barracks, already dressed.

"It took you two hours to put that on?" Eren wipes his sweaty forehead, squinting at Jean’s outfit.

Jean scowls and crosses his arms over his crisp dress shirt and shiny navy waistcoat, one Eren hasn’t seen before. “I would have come sooner if I didn’t know I’d just be waiting around for you to complete your daily penance to humanity,” he grumbles, uncrossing his arms again. “It wouldn’t kill you to quit doing so much extra 3D practice considering you hardly even use it anymore.” He flicks his finger against one of Eren’s engines.

Eren stares at Jean’s shiny, shiny shoes, gritting his teeth. “You know I seriously hate it when you start spouting that type of bullshit. It’s a soldier’s _duty to stay current with recent maneuvers and practices as well as—”_

"Holy shit, would you relax?" Jean squeezes Eren’s shoulders like a patronizing fuck, like he still doesn’t quite get it, even after all this time. "You don’t need to recite the book. I read that god forsaken thing too, remember?"

"Not well enough. You should probably practice with me."

Jean rolls his eyes and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Sure, watching you run yourself ragged has always been my idea of a good time.”

Eren shrugs uncomfortably, breeze catching his shirt where Jean had been touching him a moment ago. “You sound like Mikasa,” he says. “I’m not asking you to worry about me.”

"Don’t bother. I’ve got no choice. Besides," Jean plows on as his creepy ‘I’m-about-to-offend-someone’ leer snaps into place, "not everyone has to make up for a lack of natural talent."

It’s a testament to just how much trouble Eren is in that he actually  _likes_ that look when Jean’s lips curl back to reveal even rows of teeth and his shoulders hunch forward like a creepy old flasher.

"Fuck  _off,_ " he orders as Jean slides an arm around him.

Jean’s smile is gleeful and indulgent. “Come on, Eren. Let’s get you dolled up. It’s not every day we get a night on the town.”

* * *

During two hour ride on the funifor ship, Eren tells stories about fighting bullies with Mikasa in Zhiganshina and how Armin’s grandpa would gently help them wash the blood out of their sleeves and Armin’s hair.

"He got really good at it. He had a special stain removing recipe and everything," Eren says with a grin, leaning against the ship dock railing, staring out at the hundreds of parallel lines that made up the riverside Wall Rose wheat fields. They seem to glow golden in the faint yellow dusk. "You think I can’t keep my mouth shut about principles, but Armin used to be even better than me."

"Worse, you mean. You meant to say worse," Jean corrects, resting his hand in the crook of Eren’s waist.

He doesn’t look annoyed, though. The corners of his mouth are turned up sweetly, long angles of his face shadowed by the low hanging sun. Even when he tries to stop smiling the corners of his hazel eyes wrinkle.

With some difficulty, Eren shoots him a dirty look. “You’re one to talk about ‘worse,’ Jean. You  _were_ a bully.”

"Not particularly," says Jean, avoiding his gaze with a smirk. "I just didn’t get in anyone’s way. There’s a difference."

“You…didn’t get in anyone’s way,” Eren repeats.

Jean shrugs, because he’s the world’s biggest moron.

"Have you ever met yourself?" Eren demands with an accusatory point of his finger. "When  _aren’t_ you in my way? Name one time!”

Several other passengers enjoying the warm air on the ship deck look over at them curiously.

Jean snickers until Eren is compelled to give him an enthusiastic shove in the head.

"Yeah," Jean says, scooting back in closer, "But that’s because you’re  _you._ What makes you think I’m ever gonna get out of your way, you suicidal asshole?”

Eren feels his face heat up. “Knock it off. I’m pissed.”

"You’re always pissed," Jean grouches, closer still.

"Mikasa told me I should aim for your kidneys in situations like this," Eren mutters, halfhearted as Jean’s hand slides up his back between his jacket and shirt.

Jean leaps away in an instant. “She’s not here, right?”

Eren grins and raises his eyebrows. “Who knows? She could be, Jean. Maybe she wants to get you when you’re least expecting it. Watch your back.”

"She’s only invited to this relationship if she stops pointing to me after she kills things," Jean says. "But then she’s totally invited. Make sure to let her know."

"You’re disgusting," Eren replies.

Jean looks legitimately bothered by the prospect of Mikasa intermittently threatening him for the rest of his life, though, so after enduring a minute of pouts and sighs, Eren forces an encouraging smile and gives Jean a firm pat on the back. “Don’t worry. Mikasa has always been sort of fond of you.”

Jean sniffs. “Funny way of showing it.”

"Well, she likes me more, obviously," Eren points out, shrugging at Jean’s subsequent outrage.

* * *

Things go south after Eren gets them kicked out of the restaurant. Not that it’s his fault, considering it was full of—

"Classist pigs! Evil fuckers! Cold hearted sons of—-"

"I sold my soul to Erwin for those reservations," Jean interrupts hollowly, staring out at the glitzy electric lighting of the northernmost district of Sina. "He’s really going to promote me this time. I made a deal with the devil."

Eren pauses in his tirade against the fuckwit owners of that shithole restaurant. “You’re getting promoted again?” he echoes.

Jean whimpers dramatically and leans his forehead against the cold corner of the block of shops from which they’ve recently been expelled.

"Hey, what the hell, Jean!" Eren clasps his shoulder and tugs him out of his defensive stance with a smile. "That’s great! Changing ranks is a good thing, remember? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?"

Jean stares at him in disbelief, pulling away. His eyes go sharp.

Eren’s stomach drops.

This is what Jean does, constantly, consistently. He takes good things, and he makes them bad. “You’re so shitty sometimes, Eren,” he says, distant and cold. “You know what this promotion means, don’t you?”

Eren can’t see anything but red suddenly. He grabs ahold of Jean’s stupid fucking vest that he probably bought special for this stupid fucking date. “Better a shitty boyfriend than a shitty person!” he shouts. “You didn’t even  _twitch_ when they kicked out those street kids! I get really fucking sick of being disappointed in you!”

But Jean isn’t listening to him, just yelling something about away missions and sending children to their deaths and Eren getting killed on his orders and, “Don’t you think I’ve thought about whether it’s great or not, you suicidal asshole?! Just because you got your rocks off over Corporal Levi as a kid doesn’t mean the Scouting Legion isn’t just as corrupt as the fucked up god damn Military Police—” which is exactly the moment an officer from the Military Police shows up to escort them away from the scene.

However, this particular Military Police officer is drunk off her ass, too drunk to recognize Eren, damp with sweat and wafting the acrid scent of hard liquor. She drops them off at the edge of the Red Light district with a warning.

"Have a nice night, boys!" she giggles, ruffling Eren’s hair roughly, fingers hot and sharp.

Eren blurts, “O-Oi!” and jerks away as Jean simultaneously snaps, “Hands off!”

She snorts and continues as if neither had spoken, calling out, “I know  _I_ will!” on her way. They watch in silence as the unicorn insignia on the back of her jacket disappears into the crowd of well dressed ladies and gentlemen milling about the city.

Then Jean groans and sits down on the curb.

Eren glares at him standing up for a while before he sits next to him and continues glaring from a whole new angle.

Eventually, after three false starts, Jean glances at him and asks, “You okay?”

Eren’s glare eases when he finds that he likes this sneaky expression, the way Jean looks away after he speaks with his eyebrows pinched together.

His red-rimmed eyes do a cute little sparkle in the city lights as his gaze travels twitchily over the dim streets and party goers strolling by in entwined pairs. He embraces himself like a petulant child.

And Eren, for all his protests, deflates like a balloon at the sight, proverbial hot air rushing out of his head with a whoosh. “It turns out getting pet like a dog isn’t the worst injury I’ve ever had,” he says, exhausted suddenly.

Jean rolls his eyes. “I meant, like, emotionally, but great. Thanks,” he mutters as he turns and promptly starts fussing over Eren’s hair. “That chick did totally screw with your hairdo, though. You looked all nice before.”

Eren grins, grinding his head into Jean’s touch. “I looked hot, huh?”

"Just your hair," Jean corrects, his fingers sliding down to rest at Eren’s neck. "Your hair which I did for you. Because I am an amazing person and you’ve always been deeply jealous of me."

Eren leans in until their noses bump. “Just your hair,” he says.

Jean exhales a long sigh and closes his eyes.

Suddenly they’re just another couple in the city dressed up in their weekend finery, seated on the curb, bent in toward each other softly in the darkness.

They aren’t just another couple, though, Eren remembers faintly. The world isn’t as well-divided as that anymore, and it’s something that Jean has helped him realize over and over.

"You’re not a shitty person," Eren blurts in Jean’s face, dissonant. "I’m not disappointed in you."

"Seriously shut up," Jean replies, contrary to the way his arms encircle Eren’s shoulders, contrary to how his body sags into Eren’s at the words. Then, still half hugging him, he reaches back to pull out his pocket watch. "And we’re gonna be late for the ballet," he says. "Great."

"I thought it didn’t start for another hour," Eren replies, secretly sniffing Jean’s collar.

"Yeah, but we have stuff to do first. Quit huffing my scent, you freak."

Eren sniffs more and asks in a muffled voice, “What stuff? You said you had everything planned. You wouldn’t stop talking about it. You told me hundreds of times—”

Jean hauls Eren away with a hand fisted in his hair. “There’s been a change of plans.”

Eren smirks in spite of his head being forcibly tilted back. “Yeah? How come?”

"Because," Jean sighs, releasing him. "You were right. For once."

* * *

As it turns out, after forty minutes of searching for the kids who had gotten kicked out of the high end restaurant simply for looking poor, after buying them a heaping helping of street cart food and wishing them good luck, after Eren gets their names and tells them in detail about the Scouting Legion, they miss the entire first half of the ballet and only manage to take their seats during the intermission.

Maybe it’s because talking about the military has him riled up, or because fighting with Jean always manages to remind him of all the reasons they used to fight in the early days, but Eren finds himself imagining a Titan crashing through the orchestra pit.

This is normal. This always happens, the overlarge sole smashing down the bones of the conductor, the red splatter across the faces of the violin section, the sour clang of instruments hitting the floor. First it would get quiet and then the screams would grow deafening. The ornate ceiling with its rainbow of stained glass would splinter into a spiderweb, twisted strands of metal bearing down through audience members. He imagines meter-length fingers following the rain of debris, snatching up doctors and farmers and parents and children about to be chewed down into pulp.

When he looks up he can see the wrought iron chandelier that would crush Jean to death. There’s a chance Eren could transform in time to save him, but he’s been too slow before. Jean, with a snapped spine and punctured lungs, sobbing out a laugh at the irony of his situation. Jean, who has put his life on the line time and again, who has changed so little and become so different. Jean, who is a selfish obstinate dick at worst and an awkwardly gentle hothead at best. Weary, harsh, sarcastic Jean, with his skull splintered beneath the chandelier, crooked body slurped up by a Titan, gone from sight.

Jean jabs his elbow into Eren’s side.

Eren jolts, looking over, finally, at Jean, who is tangible and present, who is safe in the seat beside him at the Grand Sina Opera House.

Jean opens his mouth to say something but then seems to decide against it, unsure of his etiquette. He settles for pointing vigorously toward the stage in a silent order to pay attention.

Although Eren has only ever been to one other theater production in his life, back in Zhiganshina with his father, he’s pretty sure spectators are allowed to talk during the intermission. He tells Jean as much and then adds, “It hasn’t even started yet. What do you expect me to look at?”

Jean waves a dismissive hand and still says nothing, staring ahead at the closed red curtains in what is either an attempt to save face or the beginning of some impromptu silent treatment.

The modern electric lights recently strung through the chandeliers high above are flashed on and off for a few moments before fading to black when the audience has retaken their seats.

“ _Now_ it’s starting,” Eren says proudly into the quiet dark.

"Oh, really?" mutters Jean, because he doesn’t leave well enough alone.

Unfortunately, Eren fails to mock him further, because the music floating out from the orchestra pit grabs his attention right away. It’s light, played on the thin strings. The percussion section barely moves but the softest ringing of bells comes across all the same.

Isabelle Friedrich, headlining ballerina, tip-toes out onto the stage framed by a wide skirt of white tulle. At first the only hint of light is her spotlight, but after a few graceful movements the curtains behind her sweep open to reveal the sparkling landscape of a snow capped mountain.

Although they’ve missed the first half, Eren figures out the plot relatively quickly. It’s the story of a snow fairy who falls in love with a little white flower at the foot of the mountain after mistaking it for a frost sprite.

The flower is played by several dancers in black spreading and looping a length of white silk into various bows and spirals, constantly changing and surprisingly expressive.

Almost right away after the intermission, the snow fairy bashfully approaches her flower for the first time and kills it by accident. Slowly, the silk flower goes stiff with the cold, its petals falling in sections of white ribbon.

Isabelle, dancing an exquisite snow fairy, droops to the ground with her toes pointed in a graceful despair.

She seeks out the four seasons for help. Tall Mother Winter, cheerful Summer and tiny little Frere Fall each send her on her way after a dazzling display of their power, dancing leaves, rushing water and falling snow.

Completely engrossed, Eren forgets that it’s summer outside as Mother Winter takes Isabelle in her arms and introduces her to Sister Spring, a petite ballerina dressed in green and yellow.

At some point during the last act, Eren finally turns to see Jean’s reaction only to catch Jean already staring back. And here is Eren’s favorite look of all, Jean’s eyes soft and smile easy, just slightly crooked, his head tilted and his hand reaching out.

"What?" Eren whispers, laughing slightly still in wonderment at it all. His eyes are damp, but Jean has the good sense, for the first time in a hundred years, not to say anything about it

Instead he briefly touches Eren’s face, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. “Just remembering why I’m here,” he says.

On stage, the white and blue frost flowers begin turning inside out, changing colors as the crescendo reaches its peak, and everywhere in the Opera House is a field of wild flowers. In a remarkable bit of stage magic, roses, hyacinths, violets and daffodils bloom from every imaginable piece of the set. A flurry of fragrant petals drifts down in bunches from above the stage. Enormous major chords accompany the end of Isabelle’s dance as she and Sister Spring leap from one dancer to the next, touching them each with the rainbow of flowers until, at last, Isabelle is the only one who remains in white.

The silk flower, attached to Isabelle’s sash, stirs as the puppeteers in black return to the stage to give it life.

It’s an old story, from before the wall. Even fifty meters of stone can’t keep out the changing seasons.

The last note of the ballet is small, sweet and lingering, one pull across a violin.

Isabelle is lifted above the rest of the cast like a bird, posed elegantly against the bright blue back drop, glittering in her sequined lace bodice. Her outstretched fingers brush against the silk flower, soft.

She is, to Eren’s eyes, utterly free.

The stage lights fade and go dark.

The tall velvet curtains close like the end of a book.

Applause thunders into existence as suddenly as a lightning strike.

Absently Eren realizes he’s instigated a standing ovation, that Jean sinks lower in his seat until he’s sure people other than Eren are standing up as well.

"You’re so embarrassing," Jean complains amidst the claps and shouts.

Eren ignores that, because Jean could find a way to be embarrassed about the sound of his own breathing, but kisses him soundly anyway and, after a few long moments, says breathlessly, “Thank you.” His voice is nearly drowned out by the continuing applause, expression veiled by lowered lights. The Titans don’t attack. The humans in the theater are all searingly alive.

Jean opens his mouth three times before he manages a response, pink in the cheeks. “Remind me to bring you to girly ballet shows more often. You’re like, leaking everywhere.” He wipes at Eren’s face with a disgusted grimace.

"Sorry I’m not a heartless prick," says Eren, shoving Jean’s hands away.

Jean starts to grin. “Sorry I’m not a weepy wilting flower.”

Eren swings out a fist to hit him, familiar, and Jean catches his hand, easy.

"You’re pushing it," Eren warns.

But Jean just smiles his moronic debonaire smile and pats Eren gently on the butt, and that’s familiar too.

**Author's Note:**

> HRUGHGAHGH I APOLOGIZE


End file.
